


When We Meet Again

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2004.  While on a mission in Diagon Alley, Regulus Black bumps into an old crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> I think this story might have been part of a challenge, but I don't remember which. If I recall, the prompt involved introducing a Slytherin who didn't become a Death Eater, or side with them, and getting Regulus laid.

**Autumn 1980**

There were chrysanthemums in the cart outside Fiona Matheson's Flower Shoppe on Diagon Alley. Little explosions of red, orange, and yellow, they stood out among Fiona's more typical wares and caught Regulus's eye, as did the girl bent over them.

She herself stood out from the other shoppers with her peacock-blue cloak, her tumble of chestnut curls, and -- when she looked up, caught him staring, and smiled -- her dark, long-lashed brown eyes. She was easily the prettiest girl he had seen in weeks and it was with mingled surprise and pleasure that he realised that he knew her.

It had been more than a year since he had last seen her, but by the time she crossed to where he stood her name was on his lips. He opened his mouth to greet her, but all that emerged was, “Uh...”

Her smile deepened and a dimple flashed in her right cheek. “You're as eloquent as ever, Regulus Black,” she said.

He thought, _Merlin, I forgot about that dimple. How did I manage to forget about that? It used to keep me up nights, that dimple._ Then her words registered and he stammered, “Er -- oh, you remember me!”

“And as quick on the uptake,” she laughed. “How are you? You look a bit... I don't know. I want to say careworn, but that would probably be presumptuous, considering I haven't seen you in over a year. Tired?”

He raked a hand self-consciously through his hair and hoped his cheeks were not as red as they felt. “Tired,” he admitted. Careworn was probably closer to the mark, but as she said, it had been a long time and it would be presumptuous of _him_ , not to mention insanely dangerous, to tell her how he really felt, and why.

Not that there was much chance of him actually getting the words out, were he so bold or so stupid as to try. He had adored Charmian Ravenwood since his fourth year at Hogwarts. Since the fifteenth of April, 1976, to be precise. Evening, after supper. He found it just a little alarming that the date was still there in his memory, but Merlin's beard, it could have been yesterday. He felt just as immature and clumsy now as he had at fourteen when he'd glanced up from his Arithmancy text to see who was laughing so delightedly and his gaze had lit upon her face and suddenly... He had recognised the feeling immediately and his relief had been boundless because if he could feel like _this_ while looking at a girl, it meant he couldn't possibly be like his depraved older brother. His euphoria had lasted until the next morning when, at breakfast, Charmian had asked him to pass her the butter and not only had he picked up the marmalade jar, but upon realising his error had dropped it onto his lap, spilling its contents over himself and Severus Snape.

Sirius could have had her, he remembered thinking, had he wanted her, and the thought galled him nearly as much now as it had then. Sirius could have had her even though she was a Slytherin, if only he had wanted her, whereas Regulus, who was just as handsome as his older brother, and just as clever -- he liked to think -- could barely string together two words in front of her.

Why in Merlin's name was he thinking about Sirius now?

Because she had been nice to him, he remembered, when Sirius had been disgraced. When the whole school had been muttering about Sirius's sexual preferences and speculating about Regulus's, she alone of all his housemates had showed him some compassion. “You're not your brother,” she had told him, and he had been so grateful and so furious with his inability to express his gratitude.

Abruptly he ordered himself to stop thinking about Sirius -- and himself at fourteen. He wasn't that boy, anymore. He wasn't awkward, fumbling for his own identity, or trying to escape his brother's very long shadow. He was eighteen years old, he had been out of school since June, he had found his niche, was at present restoring his family's sullied honour…

...And he was standing here in the middle of Diagon Alley, looking at the girl who had been the heroine of all his fantasies for four years, and she was smiling at him and _he wasn't saying a bloody word_.

“Er,” he tried.

“How's your family?” she asked.

“All right. Well, my mum's a bit loopy, but...you know, she always was.”

“What about your brother? And your cousins?”

“My cousins -- Bellatrix and Narcissa, you mean? They're all right. Narcissa had a baby back in April. A son -- Draco. I'm his godfather. How's your family?”

She did not seem to notice that he had not answered her inquiry about his brother.

She shrugged. “The same. Dad's away, as usual. Mum's...her usual self. Doesn't approve of my chosen career at all.”

“So...you did become an actress?”

“On the Muggle stage, no less! I don't have the figure for their movies, but... You remembered, that. I'm surprised.”

“Well...” They _had_ managed to have a few conversations lasting longer than two minutes. “What are you doing here?”

“Christmas presents.” She lifted her paper shopping bag to show him. “You?”

“Waiting...for someone.”

“Ahhh.” Her dimple flashed again. “A girl?”

“No,” he said. “No, um. Just a friend. Well, Lucius Malfoy.” No harm, he reckoned, in her knowing that. “Narcissa's husband. But...he's late. More than half an hour late.”

He wasn't worried, yet. Lucius had his own concept of timeliness and had yet to run into trouble out of which he could not talk or fight his way. Regulus was only slightly disappointed. He had been under the impression he was being entrusted with a mission of at least mild importance. Now he was unsure.

But Charmian's presence took the edge off his uncertainty. Here she was, after all, one of the last people he had expected to bump into here. Here she was as beautiful as ever, and talking to him like she was interested in what he had to say, even if it was only smalltalk. Here she was with her big brown eyes and her soft curves and her pleasant voice. And that made up for a lot.

“We could wait for him in that café over there,” she suggested, pointing. “I could wait with you, I mean. I'm not in any hurry to go anywhere, and-- It's been more than a year. I want to hear about your last year at Hogwarts, how everything went, and, well, everything.”

“Everything?” he said a little warily. “Everything I can tell you -- I mean... Merlin, it'll take me all day to get one sentence out!” he blurted, then smiled at her ruefully.

“Everything,” she said firmly.

****

“You didn't tell me about your brother when I asked,” Charmian said as she sipped her tea. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the café window, warming her cheek and turning strands of her hair golden. “I suppose that means you don't want to talk about him.”

Regulus cradled his own teacup and studied its contents for a few moments before answering. “We don't speak,” he said finally, without looking up. “We haven't since he left home. He...does what he does. There's no point talking sense into him. There never was.”

“That's a shame,” said Charmian.

“I suppose,” said Regulus. “We choose our sides. He's chosen his. There's nothing I can do about that.”

“But do you care about what happens to him?”

“Has he ever cared about what happens to me?”

****

“Your turn, then,” said Regulus, aware that the sun was setting, Lucius had not yet shown up, and he had not yet run out of things to say. “Tell me about America.”

Charmian made a face.

“Come on. You were going to be a Muggle actress.”

“I was going to be an actress in a Muggle _film_ ,” she corrected, with a note of disdain. “I wasn't going to be a _Muggle_. You know what a film is, right?”

“You said it's like a photograph except there's a story, and none of it's real.”

“You remembered! Yes, well, I auditioned, and they said I could have the right sort of look, but I had to lose at least two stone, first.”

Regulus could see nothing wrong with the way Charmian looked. “I can't decide,” he said slowly, “which of you is more barking mad: you for wanting to be a bloody Muggle actress, or them for not wanting you.” He flushed hotly after saying it, but was glad he had because she blushed, too.

****

“You've grown, Regulus. I don't just mean you're taller, although you are. You've grown up.”

“Have I?” It's the first thing she's said that he finds difficult to believe. Not that she doesn't sound sincere.

“I think so. When I said before that you looked tired I meant...you look like you've done a lot. What _have_ you been up to since you left Hogwarts? You said you were thinking of working for the Ministry, but what have you really been doing? Come on, I've told you what I've been up to.”

“I haven't been doing much of anything,” Regulus said, again avoiding her gaze. He wondered how much she knew about what was going on in wizarding Britain, having been away in America for a year. He wondered how much he ought to tell her. She had been a Slytherin and, he had always assumed, a pureblood. “I suppose I've been lazy,” he admitted. “Well, catching up on reading and such, but...”

****

“I never felt completely comfortable in Slytherin,” she said, sprinkling vinegar over her chips. Half an hour ago they had given up on Lucius and relocated to the Leaky Cauldron. In the dim lighting her eyes were like charcoal smudges. Her skin looked soft and smooth as warm wax. He wanted to touch it, to warm his cold fingers on her face and look into her eyes until he found the sparkle he knew had to be there, under the shadows.

“Weren't you?” he asked. His voice sounded dull in his ears. Well, maybe that was due to the pint of lager he had half-downed.

“Not really. The thing is, I don't think I'd have been comfortable in any other house. I am ambitious. Even the Sorting Hat saw that. I want what I want when I want it, Mum always used to say. Still says. I just never felt as though my ambitions were the same as everyone else's. What did _you_ want? Forget I asked that,” she pleaded a second later. “It was a bad question.”

“I'll answer it if you will,” said Regulus.

All the faces in the room -- and there were many -- had begun to shine like candle flames, but hers shone the brightest. There seemed to be smoke all around as well, and it was darkening his vision, making it difficult for him to think. Or maybe that was the lager. Or the way Charmian licked the vinegar from her fingertips, delicately, like a cat.

“That's fair, I suppose,” she mused. “All right. Well, I suppose I've always craved attention. I like having an audience. In nineteen years I haven't managed to espouse any causes other than myself.”

“I don't believe that,” Regulus said automatically, though he could think of nothing to refute her claim.

“It's true,” she said. “I don't think it makes me a bad person. I try not to step over _too_ many people. It's just what I want. And if I have to resort to Muggle entertainment...” She shrugged.

“You don't think it's a bit...” He paused.

“What?”

“I was going to say, you don't think it's a bit...pathetic? Not you,” he said hurriedly as she pulled a face. “Them. The things they do to entertain themselves. You don't think it's a bit pathetic the way they flock to these spectacles like their lives are meaningless without them?”

“You sound like Professor Cowell,” she remarked. “I don't know, maybe it's a bit pathetic, but if _I'm_ the one they're flocking to...”

“Or you _would_ be, if you lost two stone,” Regulus reminded her slyly.

“Well...” She picked up another chip, studied it thoughtfully for a moment before popping it into her mouth. “All right, maybe they are rather pathetic.”

****

“Should Floo Lucius,” Regulus said, or tried to say. What came out sounded more like “Shuh-flucius,” at which he and Charmian both laughed. “Well,” he tried again. “I'm his godfather. No, Draco is. That's not right, either. I should Floo.”

“I should fly,” said Charmian softly, stroking his fingers.

There _had_ been a table between them, Regulus knew. With food on it. It had all vanished somehow, as had the other people in the tavern. They stood in a doorway now, and it was open, but there was a room on the other side of the threshold, not the chilly air of a London November night.

“You look confused,” Charmian said.

“I am. How did I get here?”

“Mostly by leaning on me,” she said wryly. “You just paid for this room ten minutes ago.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was going to get you settled in, then go home. Well, I was thinking of kissing you good night, first.”

“Really?”

“Really. See?” And then she stood on her toes and kissed him lightly, on the cheek. “Your brother cares about what happens to you,” she whispered in his ear. “You're two very different people, but he cares.”

The kiss should have floored him. But at her words a bitter knot clenched in his belly and he heard himself say, “You want Sirius. Not me.” Because it was always true. The girls always wanted his vibrant, thoughtless, queer brother.

“I've had Sirius,” she said, or he thought that was what she said. It might have been something else. The blood was roaring in his ears, and then _he_ was roaring, “I'm _not_ Sirius! I'm not a straight version of my brother. I'm not anything like him!”

She smelled like lavender, and smoke from downstairs. She was soft in his arms, and pliant. There was vinegar on her tongue, and then there was her sparkling laughter all around him and her voice saying, “Looks like you found your tongue. Mine too.” Then they were inside the bedroom and the door was slamming behind them. They were stumbling, tripping because they were clinging to each other, and there was the peacock-blue cloak on the floor, and his own black cloak spilling down beside it.

He had done this before, with other girls. But this girl had always been a fantasy for him, so he foolishly assumed everything would go perfectly, and he was a little surprised when it did not.

“Careful,” she said, putting her palms on his chest and pushing him away from her slightly. “Slowly.” One small hand stole up his chest to his cheek and rested there. The other drifted downward, grasped him, and guided him inside.

****

Afterward, while he lay against the pillows, panting, she rose and opened the window beside the bed. The cold air felt good against Regulus's heated skin. The slight breeze lifted Charmian's hair and spilled it around her shoulders. She really was all curves, he thought dimly as she lay back down beside him and laid a plump, soft-skinned arm across his chest. From her chestnut ringlets to her full breasts to her pink toes there was nothing hard about her. And yet, he knew she was strong. Defying her mother, defying convention.

He raised one hand to her shoulder and let it drift down her back to rest against her bum. Merlin, how he had stared at that bum as a student. How he had dreamed about cupping it just like this...and how she had sighed in his dreams, just as she was doing now. Sighing, and stretching against him like some pampered, purebred cat.

She was stroking his arm lightly and at first all he thought was, _That feels so good,_ but then he noticed her fingertips lingered over a certain part of his upper arm, and he turned to look at her, surprised.

She was watching him. He saw the sweep of her lashes, but her eyes were shadowed. “This bit right here,” she said quietly, “where my fingers are, where it's a little rough. I know what that is. Was it done recently, then?”

There was no sense in lying to her, if she already knew.

“Yes,” he said. “A month ago.”

“Did it hurt?” She stroked the area gently.

“A bit.” The pain still revisited him in nightmares.

“Why did you let him brand you?”

She asked calmly, but he tried to work up the strength for a passionate response only to find he had none.

“It's not a brand,” he insisted. “You make it sound like I had no choice, but I did. This is what I chose. Because it's _right_. You know it is. You _know_ Muggles.”

“Are you going to kill them, then?”

“Do we _have_ to talk about this, _now_?” He was pissed, and tired. He wanted to bask in the euphoria of having her here -- of having _had_ her -- and it was slipping from him. He tried to pull her down against him, but she resisted.

“It's a brand,” she said in a clipped tone. “Whatever you say. I never want to be branded. I want to do what I want, not what somebody else wants. You said before that you didn't know what you wanted, but is this it? _This_?” She brushed his skin again.

“This is what I want,” he murmured, raising himself on one elbow, and kissing the corner of her mouth. “This.” He kissed her cheek. “And this. And this...” His hand slipped between her legs. He felt her moist heat, felt her shudder, and found them both enflaming.

With one hand behind her neck, he guided her face down to his. She kissed his lips. She kissed his throat, then slid down under the covers to kiss his chest, his belly, and thighs. She kissed him everywhere except over the Dark Mark.

****

He woke to find her gone.

He had half-expected as much, though he could not say why. He found the note she had left, telling him she would be at her mother's house in Stafford for a while, entreating him to call upon her should he need to.

_Need to_ , he thought hazily. He needed her _now_.

He knew he'd had sex last night. The room was full of the scent, and he was naked, and the sheets were rumpled. He needed her here now to prove that it was she he had shagged and not some nameless skirt with chestnut curls and dark eyes.

His head pounded. His throat was parched. He was slow dressing, slow stumbling down the stairs and out into the bright morning sunlight.

Once he stood on the pavement he realised he ought to have bought breakfast in the tavern. His stomach roiled, but he could not make himself go back up the stairs and inside. Better just to go home, he decided. There was sure to be porridge, or toast at the very least. Rosier wouldn't ask where he had been. Rosier might not even be awake this early. Squinting, Regulus shoved his hands into the pockets of his cloak and started up the street.

There was a tall man in a dark-green cloak standing at the corner. The long frost-blond hair gave away his identity at once. For one breathless moment Regulus thought he had been lucky, and his cousin's husband at not seen him. But, no. The pale head turned slightly, the grey gaze met his, and the pale eyebrows lifted.

Certain he was for it, but hoping Lucius had a good explanation for his absence yesterday, Regulus went to meet him.

Lucius turned as he approached, and began to walk away, toward Knockturn Alley, and Regulus knew he was to follow. Once they were in the shadow of a line of shops, Lucius stopped and turned again.

“I trust you had a good night.”

The fine nostrils pinched and Regulus wondered wildly if Lucius could smell Charmian's lavender scent on him, and the scent of where they had been and what they had done.

“I trust yours was,” he replied warily. “I waited. For hours. Where in hell were you?”

“Watching you,” said Lucius calmly. “Watching you meet who you were supposed to meet.”

Regulus's face felt cold. He could not feel the rest of his body. “So,” he heard himself say. “So, it was a set up.” The words hovered in the cold air like the white puffs of his breath, but he did not believe them. He could not make himself believe them. Everything inside him rebelled against the idea.

“After a fashion,” said Lucius, sounding pleased with himself. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a roll of parchment. “I assume you still have the copy you were instructed to give to me. No, don't bother to check for it--” though Regulus had not moved “--it's of no importance. _This_ copy, which I found on the girl, is clearly not the original.”

Regulus made his mouth move. “The girl,” he said dully. “Who...”

“Whose side was she on? The wrong one, certainly. We wondered, when she returned to Britain. We knew of your fondness for her, of course, the way you trotted after her like a lapdog. What she felt for you...well, who knows? We let it slip you would be in Diagon Alley on a certain date at a certain time for a certain purpose...and waited to see what would happen. And as you see,” he concluded, smiling coldly, “we were right. I do hope,” he added, “that you managed to have a bit of fun with her, first. We could not wait for you _all_ night, after all...”

Regulus heard the words, and somewhere in his brain he understood what they meant. “And you were testing me,” he muttered, his gaze on the cobblestones at his feet. “You wanted to see if I'd arse it up.”

“And you did,” said Lucius calmly. “But you are young, Regulus, and there is time for you to mature -- but not much. She _was_ a pretty thing...”

“ _Was_.” The word lacerated the inside of his mouth; he felt as though he had swallowed a mouthful of razors. “She's--”

“Well, of course,” Lucius said. “She was a traitor.”

“Where is she?” Regulus demanded.

“Black,” said Lucius softly, “that is _not_ what I should be hearing from you, now...”

“I don't care!” he snarled, rounding on Lucius like a wounded animal. “I don't bloody care! Where is she?”

“Look up,” said Lucius and, drawing his cloak about himself, he Disapparated.

Regulus stared at the spot where he had been. Then, slowly, unwillingly, his gaze traveled up, over the roofs of the shops and taverns, and there, faint against the blue sky, he saw a thing that turned his blood to ice. He saw a green face, with narrow red eyes and a snake flowing from its own, hideously smiling mouth.

On the ground directly under that mark, he knew, there would be a peacock-blue cloak, and chestnut curls, and dead white skin. If he went there he would be seen by Aurors or by members of Albus Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, and he would be recognised, and caught.

If he followed Lucius... Punishment awaited him, undoubtedly.

He did not move. He saw clearly, coming at him from opposite directions, the two sides he had spoken of to Charmian. They roared toward him like tidal waves, and still he could not move, could only wait for them to crush him.

05/12/04


End file.
